Antiquing In The Rain
by Timbereads
Summary: It was just a little side trip during traffic. She loved to antique hunt. It was a hobby. She never thought she'd see House there. [HouCam, once again. Will be a twoshot, eventually, me pretties]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yet another two or three shot to sate me through the holidays. I promise that I am working on In The Still Of The Night, but it's a tough road to hoe. Or something. Anywho, this will be continued and I know it's rather short, but I was/am too tired to compress it into a oneshot. Please forgive me? Cameron in the story is a bit...different. Not OOC, but different. I hope y'allz like it. I know I do. Reviews are my anti-drug, so review, or I may go back to the pipe. Please, save the fanfic authors. Don't let us do cocaine. Review. That is all. Enjoy! **

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She went through hobbies like other women went through shoes. It was a character flaw, she supposed, but keeping busy was something she had always done. At the hospital, when they didn't have a patient, there was a reason why she did paperwork or House's clinic hours instead of twiddling her thumbs like the other two: she had to stay busy.

She was much like House in that sense. When he thought, he fiddled with his cane or died in his video game. Of course, she usually occupied her mind so she _wouldn't_ think, but the similarities were there.

Sort of.

From the common hobbies (knitting), to the nerdy (stamp collecting), to the truly rare (spelunking), Allison Cameron liked to try it all. Her closets were packed to bursting with equipment she didn't use and projects she never finished. Contrary to popular belief, she was not a perfectionist. Well, okay, she was, but only about things other people would see. No one had ever seen her partially painted self-portrait or the cactus she'd tried to coax out of the dirt last spring, and no one ever would. Those things were secret, just like the adventurous side of her personality. In the halls of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, she was timid, obedient Cameron. Whilst scaling Mount Washington alone, she was dare devilish and mildly ADD Cameron.

She sat at a pottery wheel, hesitantly poking at the lump of brown clay that the instructor had plopped down in front of her. Every time she pressed lightly on the pedal underneath her foot, the wheel would spin wildly, sending bits of clay flying everywhere and earning her dirty looks from the rest of the class. Cameron sighed and tried holding the lump like the others were doing before putting weigh on the pedal. She was pleasantly surprised to find that the clay did not project itself into the air, and began to shape it into a suedo-pot…thing.

It was Wednesday, and for the time being, Wednesdays were Pottery and Karate lessons at seven and eight, respectively; if House hadn't paged her by then, she would also sneak into Porter's and antique-hunt. Undoubtedly, this would change as soon as she gave up on pottery or earned her red belt.

Antique hunting, however, was never added to the ever-growing list of hobbies that had been tried, enjoyed and subsequently dumped. No, she would always love antiques. Cameron wasn't exactly sure what drew her to them, what possessed her to stop at every shop she passed, or why she never actually _bought_ anything. If she had to guess, it would be that they were old and full of memories, memories she wished she had or could be present at. She liked to ask the shopkeeper about the pieces, reveling in the tales described of the couch that had made its way across all seven continents to the china doll dressed in a flannel skirt that bore the pattern of Robert the Bruce's clan. It was fascinating and frightening at the same time.

It made for a wonderful escape.

Eight o'clock came and went, and, sweaty from the karate, Cameron decided to forego the stop at Porter's. As she stepped from the dojo, the skies opened and began to drop a week's worth of condensation on her head. She sprinted to her car, yelping when acorn-sized bits of hail started pelting her body. That's gonna leave a bruise, she thought.

The unexpected hailstorm brought traffic on the roads to a screeching halt. Cameron swore viciously and turned onto a side street. A sign caught her eye. The gold lettering glistened in the rain. 'Bartholomewe's Antiques,' it read.

"I've definitely never seen that before," she muttered to herself. Dodging flying pellets of ice, Cameron ducked into the dusty old store. A bell tinkled above the door; particles of centuries old grime drifted towards the low ceiling, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting that emanated through the cracks between the furniture and other assorted odds and ends, her mouth dropped at the sheer size of the place. What had appeared to be a tiny country store from the street was really a behemoth! Aging wood and unpolished metal tumbled out from every available crevice. Oriental rugs adorned the creaking floors, headless mannequins were dressed in nineteenth century royal gowns, the walls were plastered with colorful oils and swirling patterns.

"May I help you, miss?" a seedy voice whispered from beside her. She screamed and instinctively jumped into fighting stance. Damn karate. The man who'd spoken hardly flinched, as if he saw soaking wet women crouch and fling up their fists everyday of the week. Barely five feet tall, his head looked about three sizes too large for his body and his feet stuck out at weird angles from his legs. Her eyes ran over the strange gentleman, the picture becoming more comic as she went. Straight from the 1930s, he was dressed as a young newspaper boy, complete with shined black shoes to the checked shirt and pageboy cap that barely contained erratic sprouts of red hair. Sheepishly, Cameron lowered her hands. This man was no threat.

"I'm quite sorry if I startled you." He spoke in a soft, nasally tone, a defined lisp obvious with every word he whispered.

"A little," she admitted. "You must be Bartholomewe?"

"Yes, I am, but not the one you are thinking of. The Bartholomewe that lent his name to this store was my grandfather."

"Oh. How…interesting," she offered weakly.

Bartholomewe nodded and leaned in closer. Okay, personal space, buddy, she thought. The man grinned widely when she stepped back, baring a set of supremely screwy teeth that poked out just like his feet.

"What was it that you were needing?" he murmured finally.

"Nothing in particular. Just browsing." Cameron began edging away.

And then he was gone. A beam of light shone through a window, illuminating a large bookshelf to her right. She ran a finger over the volumes' titles.

In what seemed like hours later, a voice drifted to her ears. She looked up.

Oh. Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: ** Sorry for the wait. I had trouble phrasing things right. Let me know if it's good. Please? I have Jolly Ranchers...!

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There were times when she hated being small. Not being able to reach a shelf in the library, for instance, or having to search way too hard for pants that fit. Those times pissed the ever-living daylights out of her. This, however, was not one of these times. As she squeezed between a bassinet and a rocking chair, Cameron was wishing she were even smaller, so that her lower body didn't have to actually be _in_ the crib to fit into the small space.

What the hell was _he _doing here? Did he like to hunt for antiques, too? She hoped not; House had a tendency to taint some of her favorite things. She could never look at candy canes the same way again.

Much as she tried to resist, her ears couldn't help but prick up as words reached them. "…box, a few days ago," he was saying. "A couple rings, I think." What? Was he buying jewelry for a woman? Cameron heard his distinctive three-beat walk and the voices got even more distant. Presumably, Bart was leading him to the ring section.

Struggling to squeeze her legs out of the bassinet, she couldn't help but wonder why he was buying rings in an antique store. And for who. That last bit, though, that one she tried to ignore. Despite her best efforts with the crib, all she managed to was make it rock, and the old wood creaked like an opening tomb. God dammit.

House's voice found her ears, even as she tried to quiet the damn screaming cage of evil. That meant he was getting closer. God dammit.

"No, it was a _couch_," he insisted.

Cameron couldn't hear the reply. Her arms were starting to get tired from holding up her body. What was he doing, furnishing a new house for his new hubby?

"This cave is bigger than Jesus' bedroom, it's gotta be here somewhere."

More footsteps. She figured they were coming from her left, by the large stack of armchairs. The muscles in her hands were cramping up. God dammit.

"If you sold it, I'll use your hair to stuff a pillow, Chucky."

Biting back a giggle, Cameron gave up on her arms and let her forehead rest on the dusty floorboards.

"_There_ it is! Okay, Chucky, I think that's it." She could hear the sarcastic smirk before she saw it. Wait, saw it?

"You know, Cameron, I knew you liked babies, but that's just silly," he said from beside her crib.

God dammit.

She lifted her burning face from the cool floor and tried to ignore the urge to beat herself to death with the doll in the crib that had managed to end up between her legs. He said nothing while she wiggled and twisted in an attempt to free herself from the wooden encasement. Finally, she blew out a giant gust of air and glared at him from under her long bangs.

"I'm stuck."

The grin on his face widened. He looked like a Cheshire cat.

"Oh, shut up and help me," she snapped.

"Right," he replied, still smiling. "I'll get Time Warp over there to bring me a saw."

Cameron blinked. "This is an antique, House. You can't attack it with a saw."

He sighed dramatically and pretended to think. "I could get some butter and we could grease you out. Like a pig!"

"I'm going to ignore the fact that you just compared me to pork and just say no."

"Well, looks like you're stuck then." House giggled. "Heh. Stuck."

"House. I'm sweaty, my arms hurt, and I'm being eaten out by a plastic toy. Just pull me out." Already, her enthusiasm for antiques was starting to wane.

The doctor complied, eyes wide, leaning his cane against the rocking chair and extending a hand. Cameron grabbed his wrist, pretending not to feel his racing pulse beneath her fingers. House pulled, she pushed, the crib groaned. Nothing.

"What possessed you to climb into this thing, anyway?" he grunted as he shifted his weight once more.

"I was trying to, ow, find a contact lens and I fell in. OW! I'd like to keep my shoulder in the socket, please." House stopped pulling and raised an eyebrow.

"…You _fell_. Feet first. Were you standing on your head?"

She scowled and continued rubbing her shoulder. If she ever got out of this thing, she was going to buy it and ritualistically hack it to pieces.

"I think you're going to have to lift me out, if you can." She was ignoring his question. He knew she was lying. And why.

God dammit.

"_You_ want _me_ to pull you out of a crib. Oh, the possibilities!"

"I hear one syllable of baby talk, and I'll shove that cane so far up your ass, you'll burp splinters."

"Ooh, the commanding type. That's hot." He popped a Vicodin and knelt, as best he could. As his hands went to her waist, Cameron took pleasure in the fact that he, too, was blushing. She swallowed a gasp when she felt one arm wrap around her body…and the other held her by the ass.

"For support," he whispered. His mouth was near her ear. She felt his breath tickle her skin. She hoped he didn't see the goosebumps that had just popped up on her body. Cameron figured she ought to put her arms around his shoulders, but she hesitated. That would be awkward, wouldn't it, she thought.

"I need you to hold on to my shoulders."

Oh. Well. Okay then. She dutifully obeyed, annoyed that her fingers immediately went to touch the hair on the back of his neck.

She heard him take a deep breath, and then he was lifting her out. Forward and up. He paused. She tried not to think about how much his leg must be exploding. Forward and up. Her knees were out, aching dully. Forward and up. Shins. Their chests were pressed together tightly. She could feel his heart beat. Forward and up. Feet.

And then House collapsed.

"Oh, shit! House! Are you okay? I'm so sorry!"

He opened one eye and glowered at her stricken expression. "Please stop screeching; you're giving me a headache."

She was on top of him. Body on body. The room was getting smaller.

"You never told me why you were here," she murmured. Ice blue eyes on forest green ones.

"Julie kicked Wilson out last night. She took all of his stuff and carted it here. Stuff he gave her, furniture, books." His chest rumbled as he talked. "He's trying to woo her, and I'm stuck getting his crap."

The tingling in her toes meant she wasn't as nonchalant about knowing he wasn't buying jewelry for another woman as she wished she was.

Body on body. Breathe.

Never breaking eye contact, Cameron stood up. She felt bare without the warmth of House's chest on hers. She grabbed his cane and handed it to him.

"Thanks," he muttered. He got up. Ice blue eyes on forest green ones.

"Thanks," she repeated. She flashed a small smile.

His gaze burned holes on her back as she walked out of Bartholomewe's Antiques. It was still raining. No hail, though. That had to mean something, right?

Hunting for antiques, she decided, was definitely the only hobby she would never give up.


End file.
